Never Somewhere Else

by Alex Gray

  ‘We will be back with our update at 11.15 tonight. Already we have a flood of calls coming in and we hope to report on some of those later on.’ Now Nick was leaning on the front of the desk, a sheaf of papers in his hand, looking quite relaxed. ‘Don’t have nightmares,’ he smiled. ‘Goodnight.’

  Maggie switched off the television and sat back. She suddenly became aware of her clenched fists and the feeling of hot sweat between her breasts.

  Lorimer had spoken to her about the urgency of the case, of the unpredictable nature of any savage serial killer. With one part of her mind Maggie had acknowledged all of these things, agreeing that the case was horrid and vile. But another part of her had remained detached until now. Somehow the reconstruction with trained actors had made the crimes seem more real to her. She had thought about the victims’ last moments and visualised that silver chain biting into their throats.

  As the scenes unfolded, Maggie had wondered about the parents. Their anguish in going through this all over again must be unbearably painful – if indeed they had been able to face the programme. Somehow Maggie thought that they would. Any link with their dead children would encourage them to watch; to see the possibility of a net being cast to entrap this sadistic killer.

  And Lorimer would do it. Maggie willed him to do it. He must catch that man before … But her mind balked at pursuing that thought.

  She looked around the room. It was not a masculine room in any way. The sofas were pale apricot and green, matching the leaf green of the curtains. Colours that were impractical for family life. But then there would never be a family now. She had chosen the colour schemes and planned the interiors, despairing of ever dragging her husband around a furniture shop. Lorimer seemed content to leave such decisions to her, although he was terribly fussy when it came to hanging any of his precious pictures. They at least were his; these Glasgow Boys prints, that Rosaleen Orr with its rich colours and hidden depths that took pride of place. Maggie loved her house, and yearned for it to be their home, but more and more it seemed that her husband was merely a passing stranger, a bedtime companion.

  Maggie pulled herself back to the memory of Lorimer’s performance on Crimewatch. She felt her shoulders relax as she thought of Lorimer and his single-minded pursuit of the killer. This was what he was good at. This was what was important. What she wanted from her husband seemed selfish, almost trivial now, by comparison. Perhaps she should resign herself to this way of life instead of trying to fight against it.

  Maggie closed her eyes wearily. The tension in her chest had created a real pain. She wanted to weep, but couldn’t.

  CHAPTER 10

  So that was it, then. The overhead lights dimmed and the studio sounded hollow as lines of cable were trailed across the floor. The cameras retreated silently, mounted by technicians crouching like monstrous insects, huge headphones clamped over their ears. Lorimer’s shoulders were stiff with tension. He filled his lungs deeply, making himself relax.

  Nick Ross was saying something to his production assistant so there was a moment’s respite, a gathering together of energies before they headed back into the courtesy suite.

  ‘Well done, Chief Inspector.’ The blond head turned in Lorimer’s direction, the calm, intelligent face creased in a beam of satisfaction. ‘Now, let’s get you out of this shambles.’

  He indicated the army of technicians and youngsters with clipboards who had descended on the area, and ushered Lorimer out into the corridor. As they made their way to the room where drinks would be waiting, Ross chatted inconsequentially about family, holidays in Scotland; all designed, Lorimer knew, to ease his tension. He had used that gentle ploy himself and appreciated it from another professional. There would be no more said about murder until Lorimer had visibly unwound. And then?

  Telephone lines were already jangling. Amongst the genuine calls were cranks and time-wasters, Ross had told him, but sometimes, just sometimes, a call would come through like a seam of gold appearing in a darkened mine.

  The update to the main programme would be made by Ross himself, letting viewers know if there were any immediate results to be had from their various appeals. Lorimer would remain behind the scenes listening as information came filtering through.

  Lorimer found himself in a small, windowless room which had the heavy smell of new carpeting. Some of those who worked on the programme were talking loudly and pouring themselves drinks. The producer handed Lorimer a square-cut glass containing malt whisky. It was a presumption, Lorimer thought, that was actually justified. Not only did he indulge in his national drink, he was in real need of one at that moment.

  ‘Water?’

  A small brown jug was proffered.

  ‘Just a splash.’

  There was no more he could do now but wait. It was irksome to have matters whisked away from him like this, and Lorimer realised that he felt exactly the same about Solomon Brightman. There were always training courses that stressed the need for teamwork and co-operation in police work. To fly solo was not only foolish and egotistical but dangerous. It showed a craving for power. Lorimer knew that his need to be in control fought battles with the common sense which delegated authority. But common sense usually won. Indeed, it had been his ability to work in a team that had impressed his superiors all the way up through the ranks.

  The whisky slipped over his throat and burned a yellow warmth inside. By going to the psychologist, by involving this television programme, he was not admitting any inability on his own part or that of his department. It was necessary to cast a wider net than he alone could wield in order to catch this killer, and Solomon had told him that it was highly likely the man they were after would watch the programme.

  ‘He won’t know beforehand that there will be any reference to his killings, but he will expect some sort of recognition. The obsession with self will make him glory in his deeds and want to see them displayed,’ the psychologist had said.

  Lorimer knew a lot about killers and their utter conviction that they were invulnerable. They all believed that they could never be caught. Some of them had appeared shrunken and bewildered when the law had finally put a stop to their evil progress. Others continued to display an arrogant bravado until the day a judge sentenced them to a suitable term of imprisonment. What about this man? A vision of his photofit face came to Lorimer’s mind. Unsmiling, clean shaven, with close-cropped hair, he could be a soldier, a policeman even, or any ordinary respectable citizen. It was frightening how normal-looking appearances hid such evil within. With a shudder Lorimer remembered the benign, smiling face of Thomas Hamilton, the warped murderer of that class of infants and their teacher in Dunblane.

  ‘Chief Inspector?’

  A small woman with dyed red hair and round black spectacles stood in front of him.

  ‘A telephone call for you.’

  Still cradling his glass, Lorimer followed the woman out into the corridor. They walked along until she stopped by the door of a well-lit office.

  ‘You can take it in there. That’s a separate line.’

  Lorimer nodded and the woman closed the door softly behind her.

  ‘Hello. Chief Inspector Lorimer speaking.’

  ‘It’s Solomon.’

  Lorimer’s heart sank. Somehow he had hoped for a respite from cowboys and indians.

  ‘I want you to do something for me.’ Lorimer waited, curious despite himself. ‘Can you ask the presenter not to mention the case in his update?’

  ‘Not to mention?’ Lorimer’s voice was incredulous.

  ‘Yes.’ There was the usual pause that Lorimer had come to expect between Solomon’s statement and elucidation. ‘He’ll be expecting to hear more about himself. I want you to provoke his vanity by keeping him guessing. If he hears nothing it will seem to him that his case is not important any more, despite the earlier programme.’

  ‘But if there is real information coming through …’ Lorimer hesitated. He felt, like Solomon, the delicate control that this televisio
n show was exercising over their unknown killer.

  ‘You don’t want him to go to ground?’

  ‘I don’t want any more dead bodies either!’ Lorimer snapped back.

  There was another pause in which Solomon’s sigh was just audible.

  ‘If no one appears to have telephoned it’s just possible that he will dial that number himself.’

  Yes, thought Lorimer, from a call box. The bastard isn’t a fool.

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ Solomon’s voice sounded almost wistful, ‘I really would like to hear his voice.’ He paused again and when Lorimer did not reply he continued, this time adopting the manner of a teacher speaking to a stubborn child. ‘There are certain aspects of this case I’d like to discuss with you. May I see you about four o’clock tomorrow?’

  Lorimer was suddenly torn between annoyance at the man’s presumption and a desire to laugh at the absurdity of taking orders from him.

  ‘Chief Inspector?’

  ‘All right. I’ll see what I can do. Tomorrow at four then.’

  As he put down the phone he could just imagine Solomon’s wide smile.

  Nick Ross was not smiling when Lorimer suggested that the update should make no mention of the St Mungo’s murders.

  ‘But we have all these calls giving possible names!’

  ‘And we both know that it’s going to take days to corroborate them. By that time he could be anywhere.’ Lorimer’s mouth hardened. ‘Our psychologist working on the case believes we may provoke our man into making a call himself, if there is no mention of him during the update.’

  Nick Ross’s eyebrows rose. A psychologist had not been mentioned by this Chief Inspector from north of the border. That would have given extra spice to the programme. A frown of irritation passed over the presenter’s face, the only sign Lorimer had of his displeasure. Somehow it made him feel guilty, as if he had no right to conceal any aspect of this case.

  Solomon was right. At twenty past midnight the switchboard registered the call.

  CHAPTER 11

  Solomon was late. One of his third-year students, an earnest Scandinavian who towered over him, had sought his approval about the research techniques needed for his dissertation. Calmly, Solly had reassured the young man, pointing out the best ways to obtain the data he required. As a result it was twenty-five past four before he emerged from the building into University Avenue and looked up and down for a taxi.

  Beneath his placid appearance he was experiencing some excitement. Chief Inspector Lorimer would be waiting, probably with justified impatience, for this meeting. Solly knew that his credibility was on the ascendant since the murderer’s phone call. Now he had to capitalise on that.

  At last a taxi appeared over the brow of the hill, its FOR HIRE sign blazing orange. Solly gave his destination and settled back to think.

  ‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector. Dr Brightman appears to have left. Can I take a message?’

  Lorimer resisted the temptation to be rude. The secretary at the Department of Psychology was undeserving of the brunt of his temper. He’d save it for Dr Brightman.

  ‘No, thank you. I expect he’s on his way.’

  Lorimer put down the receiver. Since yesterday everything seemed to have changed. It was like looking through field glasses and adjusting the focus. Certain areas now came sharply into view, others remained hazily in the background. One thing was certain, and that was the way that the killer had played into their hands. Well, to be fair, into the hands of Solomon Brightman. Lorimer had spent quite a lot of the night reconsidering the psychologist’s ability to make an impact on this case. Even now a copy of Canter’s treatise lay in his desk drawer. He had been impressed in spite of himself, even from the little he had begun to read.

  A rat-a-tat was knocked on his door and Solly’s bearded face peeped round. His habitual smile was sheepish.

  ‘Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Dr Brightman.’

  ‘I’m sorry for the delay.’

  ‘Well, now you’re here, let’s get down to business.’

  Solly sat by the window and unbuckled his battered, soft-hide briefcase. He glanced up and gave a shy smile, as if he were about to offer a explanation for his lateness.

  ‘You have the recording?’ he said instead.

  ‘Of course. Do you want to hear it now or would you rather discuss … whatever it is you’re so anxious to tell me?’

  Lorimer did not try to disguise the sarcasm in his voice. Immediately he was annoyed with himself and wondered how to counter the resentment that this mild-mannered young man provoked in him. Their working relationship had to improve, he thought, or rather his own attitude to it.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point.’ Solly crossed his legs and leaned forward slightly. ‘Why was there no rape?’

  Lorimer stared at the psychologist for a moment before answering.

  ‘But there isn’t always a sexual motive in serial killings.’

  The dark head of the psychologist nodded up and down and the huge eyes peered owlishly from behind the tortoiseshell spectacles. He took a cursory glance at the notes he had extracted from his briefcase.

  ‘I’m concerned that there is no evidence of any sexual motive. Unless this man is simply a fetishist – and I don’t believe he is – there should have been signs of sexual activity. The crimes point to the sort of killer who would achieve a sexual gratification from strangling his victims.’ He paused, as if to let this sink in. ‘Both strangulation and the taking of trophies normally coincide with sexual activity.’

  ‘You mean rape?’

  ‘Not always. As you know yourself, some of these serial killers are impotent and use their victims’ fear to heighten their own sexual urges. The absence of semen or any other bodily fluids is surprising.’

  ‘Perhaps he was clever enough to know about DNA fingerprinting?’ Lorimer suggested wryly.

  ‘I think he’s even cleverer than that, Chief Inspector.’

  The psychologist uncrossed his legs, stood up and turned to look out of the window. When he spoke again, it was almost to himself.

  ‘I think he is very clever indeed. In fact, I believe he’s leading us up the garden path.’

  Lorimer waited. hands clasped under his chin, staring at the enigmatic figure before him. He had the sudden feeling that something momentous was taking place. It was a sensation that left him outside, like an observer. For once, he was surprised to note, such a feeling did not trouble him.

  ‘Chief Inspector.’ Solly had turned round and Lorimer saw the bearded face, solemn and sad as if some profound insight had wiped away that customary smile. I don’t think we’re looking for a serial killer. Oh, I know he’s killed three young women’ – Solly held up his hand to forestall Lorimer’s protest – ‘I know he went for Alison Girdley. But it just doesn’t fit.’

  ‘What doesn’t fit?’

  Solly sat down again with a sigh.

  ‘He kills three girls with a bicycle chain. He scalps them and retains their hair. Then he takes them to a park where they will be found by a member of the public. Why?’

  ‘If I knew why, I’d have had a better chance of apprehending him by now,’ Lorimer replied testily.

  Solly nodded sadly again.

  ‘He wanted to kill. There is no apparent sexual motivation. There is no sign of any preliminary torture or menace. We have Alison Girdley’s statement showing that he lured her near enough to lash out and kill. That’s all he wanted. To kill.’

  ‘Or to obtain scalps?’

  ‘If he is a genuine fetishist he would be likely to have a history of mental illness. Your trawl of the hospital records would have uncovered something. Probably.’

  ‘Wait till you hear what he says on the tape,’ Lorimer replied, pulling open his desk drawer.

  He removed a cassette from an evidence bag then slotted it into the tape recorder on his desk. Solly stared intently as the play button was pushed. There was a moment’s silence, then a nervous throat-clearing
before a Scottish voice proclaimed: ‘I killed those girls.’ There was a pause that would have done justice to Solly’s own deliberate manner. ‘Can you guess what colour I’m going to have next?’ Another pause was followed by a snigger then the sound of a telephone being put down.

  Lorimer watched the man opposite as he listened intently. Solly’s gaze never wavered.

  ‘Again,’ he said.

  Lorimer rewound the tape and they listened to the words falling into the space between them.

  ‘So.’ Lorimer fixed his blue gaze on Solly. ‘Do you still rule out the theory that we have a killer who is fixated with scalping young girls?’

  Solly did not reply immediately, but sat frowning in concentration, biting his lower lip.

  ‘I agree that the victims were selected at random,’ he began, then added, ‘Mostly.’

  ‘Mostly?’

  ‘Yes. I believe one of these girls was known to him. I believe that he has very cleverly tried to make us think that we are dealing with some maniac who compulsively kills and scalps young women for some sort of perverted pleasure.’ Solly shook his head, then continued, ‘I don’t believe that. I think he is putting up some sort of smokescreen. He has killed two young women at random to cover up the premeditated murder of a third.’

  Lorimer’s eyes hardened, but not because he disbelieved the psychologist. He had encountered some violent criminals in his career, but never anyone capable of such cold-blooded intent.

  ‘You mean Donna Henderson was deliberately stalked and killed, then the others were used to make it look like a spate of serial killings?’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps. He puts a deliberate signature on these deaths; the chain, the scalping, the removal of the bodies to the park. He wants us to think that there is a serial killer on the loose. But it’s all too deliberate. Too neat.’ Solly’s voice drifted off in thought.

  ‘You really don’t think this is a serial killer, despite the attempt on Alison Girdley’s life?’